


Honour

by Everliah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I know this ship will never happen but I will genuinely go down with it, Married Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark, Showverse, the typical guilty trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-01-15 04:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18491422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everliah/pseuds/Everliah
Summary: He needs this. To feel duty bound, to honour a vow he will not break. To feel like he is worthy of someone worth something. Sansa interlocks her fingers with his golden hand, drawing shapes along his pearl knuckles, then over the ridge where his stump ends, and back. He presses his head into the crook between her shoulder and her neck, feeling her pulse thrum against his lips. Jaime can’t help it, he can only hold her closer to him and wonder if this is his last chance for honour, loving Sansa Stark.Inspired by the quote: “I have made kings and unmade them. Sansa Stark is my last chance for honour.”(AU where Jaime returns to King’s Landing and is married to Sansa instead of Tyrion.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-Canon. Season 1 stands. Jaime did make a deal with Catelyn to return her daughters. He did lose his hand but upon returning to King’s Landing, Tywin forces him to marry Sansa instead of Tyrion. Jaime is largely the arrogant personality he was in the early seasons with hints of the man he becomes, just in case he seems OOC. I have taken liberties so I will not be following the events of the show.

He stands in her doorway and he knows what he must look like. Despite their father’s insistence that he be bathed and dressed like the Lannister and Kingsguard he is, Jaime knows that there is something in his eyes that gives away what has been licked at by hot water and concealed in fine, golden cloth. Some flicker of torment. He left Brienne of Tarth to go search for the youngest Stark; he knows that she will not break her vow to Catelyn Stark. Jaime, on the other hand, is not so certain of his honour.

Honour has always been a strong word for him. Once upon a time, it was the whispered fantasy of knights and white cloaks, of his boyish whims to do good in the world and to earn his place as Tywin Lannister’s heir, as a heroic figure in the songs of old. Then, it became a joke. Honour was it, that had him fucking the Queen (his sister, no less) after he’d sworn to protect the King? The jokes kept coming, always at his expense. Honour that he broke his vow to protect a king, to take no lover, to father no children. And now, what honour existed when he could never return Sansa Stark to her mother, not whilst his father lived?

It is not honourable that he stands in her doorway, that her room was the first place he went after his. Not to everyone else. Jaime, however, thinks there might be some honour in it, their own twisted, vicious kind, maybe, but it is honour nonetheless.

Cersei looks at him, shock making her face softer than he’s seen it in a while, not since she married Robert Baratheon for the throne and he groaned another women’s name in her ear on their wedding night. A Stark’s.

“Jaime,” she breathes.

Jaime wants to go to her but he finds it’s as if his legs end in stumps too. He knows the moment she sees his hand, or lack thereof. Her mouth gapes in horror, twists in scorn and gone is the sweetness of their reunion, destroying the image that has kept him going these past months. Cersei, her kisses, her golden hair, the only thing that forced him to live when all Jaime wanted was to die.

He moves forward, towards her, propelled by some stumbling semblance of that dream-

“Leave.”

He falters. “Excuse me?”

Cersei looks him in the eye. She never falters. “Leave.”

**~o~**

He hasn’t spoken to his sister since the day he’d returned and gone straight to her room. He’s seen her, of course, in court but the Queen had conveniently avoided looking at him. Jaime could not stop looking at her.

When a waiting girl knocks on his door, therefore, with a note requesting his presence in his sister’s rooms, he doesn’t hesitate. Jaime suspects she might have needed time to overcome the shock of his return, and the shock of his state of being. Whatever the reason, he is glad she is willing to see him again, to accept him into her room, into her arms, into her bed.

Jaime doesn’t expect the sight that greets him.

He knocks once before slipping into her chambers but he stops short when he sees Qyburn sitting at her table. Cersei smiles thinly by the fire. He sees her second.

“Brother,” she welcomes, folding her hands in front of her.

“Sister,” says Jaime hesitantly. He looks between the pair of them again. “You called for me?”

“Yes.” Cersei sweeps towards him and he frowns as she laces her arm through his and guides him over to the little table, coaxing him to sit. Jaime notices her motion for something, and Qyburn takes the lid from the box between them, lifting a metallic hand and placing it on the table with a thud. Jaime winces. The noise is not dissimilar to the sound his actual hand had made, falling into the dirt, dead and useless and cold and-

“Do you like it, brother?”

He can’t answer her. Qyburn reaches for his stump and he recoils wildly but his sister’s nails are digging into his shoulders so firmly that when the strange man tries again, Jaime lets him.

“It’s a work of art, really,” Qyburn croons. “The craftsmanship is excellent.”

“If you like it so much, you’re welcome to chop off your own hand and take it,” Jaime replies, though his sister grips him more tightly that he doesn’t say anything more.

“I took the liberty to request that Qyburn make you a hand, brother,” she tells him. He feels her breath tickle his hair, her fingers play with his surcoat. “I did not think you would like to flaunt that stump at court. But fear not, Jaime, it’s golden, like you,” Cersei whispers the next bit, dropping low to his ear. “Like us.”

“Cersei,” he begins.

“Do you not like it?” she demands.

“Do you?” asks Jaime bitterly. He can’t look at her. “Will you stand to look at me if I wear it? Will it cease the court’s whispers that the Queen’s brother is a cripple?”

Cersei’s lip curls. “I didn’t do that to you. I didn’t swing the sword that severed your hand, that stripped you of any ability you might have had-“

“I came back to you,” he snarls in disbelief. He would have shook his phantom hand but Qyburn is attaching the monstrous, golden replacement to his stump so Jaime has to settle for tightening his left hand on his thigh to stop from ragging his sweet sister against the wall to make her see sense.

Cersei doesn’t even flinch.

“You took too long,” she tells him.

Jaime grinds his teeth so he won’t move. He can only stare. He feels like he’s lost his hand again, though this is much more painful. When he’d looked at his wrist, blood spurting, his only worth laying numb and dead in the dirt a few inches away, he could only scream. The physical pain had been bearable only because he dreamt of what was waiting for him when he returned. Even after he’d given up and all but surrendered to death, his twin’s words – _We came into this world together, Jaime, and we shall leave it the same way_ – spurred him on, forced him to live, because what were they without one another? How could he do that to her?

He did not expected to be cast aside so callously, like the hand he had been parted with. Cersei might have arranged for Qyburn to provide a replacement but he can see her eye the metal hand with disgust. Jaime is no longer perfect. She is no longer his.

The hand is tight, pulling his skin taut around his stump, and Jaime wants to wince at the pain but instead, he launches from his chair as soon as the latches are clasped. He moves towards her, storm in his wake, pinning her to the wall, wrapping his metal fingers around her neck. He can see her pulse jump even if he can’t feel it. Jaime ignores Qyburn’s protests.

Cersei laughs sharply and his fury dissipates a little. He can see the arousal in her eyes, flaring, but he sees the flint of mockery prevail and he wrenches himself away.

“You are weak, brother,” she spits. “You’re changed.”

 _No, sweet sister_ , Jaime thinks, overcome with the suddenness of it. _We’ve both changed._

**~o~**

He doesn’t see his sister again until their father calls them both to a council meeting. He is loathe to go but he can never refuse the summons. Jaime has never refused his father a thing in his life. He slips into the room, finding he is the last to arrive, taking a seat at the table. Cersei sips her wine, eyes never once finding him. Jaime takes a deep breath.

There are the usual trivialities, the court details he’s never cared for, though he perks up when his father moves onto the war. The Lannister armies are strong, his father says, the war will be over soon and then-

“The North will need to be dealt with immediately,” his father says. “Northern loyalty is foolhardy and strong. They will no doubt try to avenge their king so it is best we establish a legitimate claim they cannot argue with. Within the month, you shall marry the Stark girl, Jaime.” Jaime looks at him blankly. Cersei’s eyes finally shoot to him. Her furious hissing is cut off by Tywin once more. “There will be no discussion, Cersei. Your son will wed Margaery Tyrell, as was promised in return for their help at Blackwater, but I will not let Winterfell fall into the hands of Olenna Tyrell as well! Do not think I haven’t heard of her plans to wed Margaery’s brother to the Stark girl. She already has her fingertips on the crown. I refuse to give her the North.”

Jaime swallows thickly. “I am sworn to the Kingsguard,” he begins but his father brushes off his concern with a flick of his wrist.

“Joffrey will give you leave.”

“He would never part from Sansa Stark,” says Tyrion. It is the first time he has spoken, swirling his goblet of wine around and around, sounding casual. “She’s his favourite plaything.”

Jaime keeps his eyes on his brother, sensing the undercurrent in his voice. Cersei snarls. “Do not dare to question your king. Who are you to deny him a whore?”

“Sansa Stark is much more than some common whore,” says Tywin Lannister loudly. Cersei’s chest heaves and she regards him with burning eyes. When he has fixed each of his children with a glower that left no room for discussion, he continues, “Jaime will wed her to consolidate the North. He will assume his right as my heir and leave for Casterly Rock after the wedding. His second son to the Stark girl will inherit Winterfell.”

Jaime can almost see himself as a pawn on a game board, or a figure on one of his father’s battle plans, being pushed mercilessly around, sacrificed for victory. He stares down at his golden hand, resting on the table. The fingers won’t move, no matter how hard he tries to flex them.

“Forgive me, Father,” he says, “but last I heard, Robb Stark was heir to Winterfell. Not his sister.”

Tywin’s smile is thin and wane and Jaime can’t honestly say he finds it less intimidating than his scowl. “Battles are terrible things. We shouldn’t expect Robb Stark to live for much longer.”

Jaime feels his mouth go dry. Cersei leans forward. Even Tyrion stops drinking to listen.

“Are you plotting something, Father?” asks Cersei.

Tyrion snorts. “No more than usual, I should wager.”

A sudden thought ignites itself in Jaime’s mind and he straightens. “What of her two younger brothers?”

He feels Cersei’s eyes cut to him, knowing she remembers the day he pushed the Stark boy from the tallest tower in Winterfell after he’d caught them together. One of his golden fingers shifts heavily.

“Theon Greyjoy, Ned Stark’s ward, burned Winterfell with the boys inside it,” Tywin tells him plainly.

“So my second son will inherit a ruin?”

“Winterfell can be rebuilt,” Tywin says, impatience making his voice ring. “The North is what I worry cannot be reclaimed. The Northern Lords cannot deny a Stark.”

“Not even one with golden curls and emerald eyes?” questions Tyrion to nobody in particular.

“Marry her to the Imp,” commands Cersei. “She is the daughter of a traitor, unworthy of such a match.”

 _If I was such a match, sweet sister_ , Jaime narrowed his eyes on her, _then why did you discard me the moment I was less beautiful than you?_

“She will wed Jaime. She will bear him children and you will not question me, as Hand of the King and Head of this family,” their father replies in a deathly low voice. His eyes are sharp and unforgiving. “Besides, splitting the two of you up will dispel those nasty rumours and consolidate Joffrey’s claim. I am looking for a match for yourself, Cersei, which you _will_ adhere to,” he adds when she outrageously opens her mouth to reply.

Jaime clenches his jaw. There is no way out of this wedding then. He can hear the finality in his father’s voice. Despite himself, Jaime can’t help but glance at his sister. He can see her fury, simmering just under her skin, bubbling over in the poison green of her eyes. He smirks. He is no longer hers and she knows it.

She pushes away from the table, drawing herself to her full height and smiles thinly. Jaime thinks she looks remarkably like their father when she smiles. “Well, I should go and inform Sansa myself. We did form such a dear friendship when she was Joff’s betrothed and I suppose we shall only grow closer now she is to be my good-sister.”

Cersei’s green eyes glitter when they fall on him. She bares her teeth like the lioness she is and sweeps from the room.

Jaime feels Tyrion’s gaze on him and looks at his younger brother. There is a warning there. He motions his head and Jaime nods, rising also. “I should like to go- prepare myself. When will the wedding be held?”

“Tomorrow, Joffrey will release you from the Kingsguard and your betrothal will be announced. You will wed in a week.”

Jaime still feels like he is choking but he manages a nod before he leaves, knowing better than to challenge his father. Tyrion follows him out, without a word to the Lannister patriarch.

The two brothers walk silently at first, side by side, and Jaime finds he can’t even look at his baby brother.

“It could be worse, you know,” begins Tyrion conversationally. “Father could have you marrying a beastly woman from the Vale with a large army and little else. At least she is beautiful.”

“She’s a child.”

“She has been forced to endure much more than her years, Jaime,” his brother replies. “Be sure to treat her well.”

“You are very kind, brother,” Jaime sighs. “She should prefer it to be you.”

Tyrion lets out a derisive snort. “Jaime, please. She’s a young girl, brought up on the tales of knights and their maids. You need only woo her once to reignite that fairy-tale. Our dear sister was right. I’m only an imp. I could offer her little by means of protection.”

Jaime frowns. “Why should she need protection? She would be Lady Lannister.”

Tyrion stays silent for a moment, so long that Jaime stops walking completely so that he can monitor every change of his brother’s face. Eventually, Tyrion looks him in the eye and says, “She has not had an easy life here, I’m afraid. A lot has happened since you were gone.”

_Yes. My sister, my lover, fucked everyone else in the castle, it seems._

Jaime huffs his acknowledgement. Tyrion glances up and down the corridor, waiting for the guards to pass at one end before he murmurs, “Your betrothed has been beaten almost weekly. She is safer wed to you. Nobody would dare touch the Kingslayer’s bride. Not even if he only had one good hand.”

With that, Tyrion tips his goblet, took a long swig, and says, “Enjoy wedding preparations, brother. Make sure our sweet sister doesn’t fuss about your wife too much. You know how sweet she can be.”

Jaime pales at that. Righting himself, he sets off for his rooms immediately. The thought trips him up before he gets there, that in some perverse way, he might just honour his vow to Catelyn Stark. In time, Sansa Stark will be brought home again.

**~o~**

He sees his little wife for the first time over the heads of the courtiers. She is tall for her age, much taller than the women around her, elegant like a sunflower craning towards the light. Even Margaery Tyrell, a rose, does not compare; there is something sly about her, Jaime feels, some hidden thorn beneath the beauty, but he can’t honestly say he would mind if Joffrey got pricked every once in a while. Jaime thinks his son needs it.

He doesn’t know what Cersei said to his future wife, but Sansa Stark doesn’t look surprised when the King calls his name; her eyes barely lift from the floor.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” and Jaime kneels, “Uncle, you have served the Kingsguard well, but as your King, I cannot ignore the whispers I hear in my court.” Jaime doesn’t smile, nor does he move. His eyes flick only briefly to his sister, who sits, wearing her distaste like a crown. He wonders what script his father gave the boy to read from. Joffrey, ever insincere in his sincerity, rests his chin on his knuckles. “It touched me, to hear of your romance, forbidden by your vows, with Lady Stark.”

Jaime dares to glance at the lady in question. She is flushed pink, still looking away, knowing everyone’s eyes have sought her out, clinging to her in question. Jaime grits his jaw and forces a smile; Tywin stands beside the King, eyes flint. _Play the part_ , they say. _And play it well._

“I cannot stand in the way of such love,” continues Joffrey. “I am quite an admirer of Lady Sansa and I would only wish her the utmost happiest. It is therefore up to me to release you, Ser Jaime, from your vows, so that you may marry.”

Jaime stands. He unclasps his cloak with his good hand, fumbling only for a second and cursing in his head, before laying it at the King’s feet. “I thank you, your Grace, for your kindness and generosity. It has been an honour to serve in your guard.”

Joffrey nods, waving a hand dismissively. Jaime catches his father’s eye and realises what he must do now. His lips purse, but his feet follow the command, and he moves, dethroned and decloaked of his honour, towards the woman who can only be his salvation or his ruin. He dares not guess which.

When he gets to her, she is finally looking at him. Jaime notices she is not quite the child he remembered from Winterfell; Sansa has grown, and she is nearly as tall as him, willowy and regal. _She should have been Queen_ , Jaime thinks vaguely. _She looks like a Queen._ Her skin is alabaster, her hair crimson red, her eyes blue like fractured ice. _An Ice Queen._

“My Lady,” Jaime murmurs, offering her his hand. She appraises him for a long time, then takes it. Her fingers are cold in his.

They take their leave, Jaime leading her from the hall. She plays the part well, to her credit, walking beside him like they are married already, like they are on the same page. Jaime wonders if they are even a part of the same book.

He does not immediately let her go as they walk away from the courtroom.

“I had no idea you were so enamoured by me, My Lord,” Sansa says, breaking their silence. He realises the reason she is holding onto him so tightly is the tension in her shoulders; her entire body is racked with a tightly coiled anxiety.

Still, Jaime almost starts. His laugh is harsh and quick. He drops her arm. “I had no idea you were so enamoured by Joffrey to find the prospect of marrying me so distasteful.”

Her lips purse. “I am sure I shall be very happy with you as my husband, my Lord.”

For some reason, the comment irks him and he can feel a muscle clench in his jaw.

Jaime turns to her quite suddenly, and Sansa tilts her chin. He wonders if she is mocking him.

“I look forward to our wedding, My Lady,” he says, bowing low and mockingly. He knows he is cruel, but he cannot help himself. “Wear something pretty for me.”

Her nose twitches. Jaime leaves her in the corridor. And he knows it is ungentlemanly but he cannot find it in himself to care. Her touch spurns. No, _freezes._ He wonders if his father hates him, giving him such an icy wife. He’ll have to take her to Dorne to thaw her first if his father expects an heir or two from them.

**~o~**

The Great Sept of Baelor is packed, and though his bride has no family, the left side of the hall is still busy, buzzing with noblemen and Lords and Ladies, come to watch the Kingslayer marry a Traitor’s daughter. He imagines they are all enamoured by his father’s lies, and some women wipe their eyes, dithering as they look from the groom released from his vows to marry the love of his life, to the woman in question. The commonfolk of Kings Landing have already made their songs, singing them in the streets for all to hear. Jaime, for his part, certainly tries to play along; he watches her from the moment the doors open. He doesn’t stare though. He most definitely does not stare, not at the elegant twists of her hair, red as the Weirwood Tree, not at the slight blush ringing her cheeks, or the pinkness of her lips. Her chin is high, proud. Her eyes, the colour of the sky in Dorne, tainted not by cloud, never leave his face. Sansa does not look like a child. She looks like a Lady.

Jaime licks his lips, swallows.

She wears white, and he lets his eyes drag over her, wondering if the grey stitching along her ribs, a nod to her Stark heritage, was noticed by his father. Jaime smirks despite himself. She’s a ballsy one, he’ll give her that much.

He stands, hands clasped in front of him, red cloak billowing about his feet, waiting for his bastard son to deliver his bride to him. When they stop before him, Joffrey does not rush to relinquish her, and Jaime has to remind himself that the cunt is his king. He’s sure the boy whispers something in her ear, no doubt something disgusting, but his betrothed merely smiles blindingly, curtsies deep and thanks him for the honour. Joffrey looks surprised. Jaime bites back the smirk, and offers Sansa his good hand. She looks at him, and this close, she is even more striking. She takes it.

“You look lovely,” Jaime murmurs lowly, and he means it. He can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse.

Sansa’s eyes flit away. “Thank you, my Lord.”

The High Septon clears his throat, and the room falls silent. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Jaime turns to her. He doesn’t know why but his hands shake slightly as they reach up to undo the clasps of her Stark cloak. He wasn’t expecting his father to let her wear it, but he supposes their marriage is a consolidation of the North, and Tywin will do everything to remind people of her birth right. His golden hand fumbles, but the clasp is intricate, and his left hand just can’t unfasten it by itself. Jaime swears under his breath and he wants to curse out loud and throw his golden hand at the Warrior, who watches him stoically; the God is mocking him, reminding him of everything he isn’t, of his broke vows, of the day he lost his hand and his honour all in one-

His breath rushes from his throat when Sansa reaches up, her small hands deftly undoing the clasp.

Jaime catches her eye. She ducks her head, and he swings the cloak from off her shoulders, passing it to his cousin, who steps up from the side. Before he can even try, Sansa unclasps his own cloak, and there are coos and murmurs in the audience; they must think it romantic, her eagerness to be wed to him, but he lowers his head so she can see the gratitude in his eyes. Jaime wraps his cloak around her shoulders, the red matching her hair. Her hands fleetingly brush his as she helps him fasten it. The one thing he can do is take her hair out from under the cloak, so it falls freely down her back.

 _Protection_. _She is mine to protect now._ Jaime can only imagine Catelyn Stark’s face; he vowed to keep her daughter safe but at what cost? At what price would she have settled for?

"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

 _Forever_. Jaime thinks that is unlikely. With all of his father’s wars, he doubts he is going to last much longer. Looking into his bride’s face, he wonders if she would mourn him, or rejoice at being made a widow so young. Sansa reveals nothing to him. She is as untouched snow.

The Septon holds out his hand for theirs. When Jaime brings up his good hand, the Septon coughs, raises his eyebrows, and lowers his eyes. Jaime’s throat clenches and he regards the man carefully for a moment, before bringing his golden hand from behind his back and offering it. Sansa stares at it and Jaime has to fight to stay calm. He focuses on the window on the far wall, watches the light as it shifts into the Sept. His heart is pounding.

It’s the weight of it that Jaime feels, as Sansa places her fingers on his; his eyes shoot to her, to their hands. She is watching him, but her eyes give nothing away.

The Septon ties a ribbon in a knot around their joined hands.

“Let it be known that Sansa of House Stark and Jaime of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Jaime stares at her. Again, he thinks it a terrible waste. She is young, beautiful, and she does not smile on her wedding day. He wishes she would smile. He wonders if her hand is warm on his, if she trembles, if he would be able to feel her heart thrum on the tips of her fingers, like a bride’s should. The Septon then steps back and his thoughts slip away. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

The ribbon unravels but Jaime still feels bound to Sansa Stark. Perhaps it is his honour, whatever shred of it is left. Perhaps it is his heart, desperate to love something and be loved in full. Eternity is a long time, he knows, he’s felt it, and it can be lonely. He wonders if Sansa Stark could ever love him.

The Septon commands, “Look upon each other and say the words.”

Sansa stares up at him. They speak intrinsically, simultaneously.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."

“I am hers,” Jaime says, and he cannot tear his eyes away from her, “and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

"I am his,” Sansa repeats, her voice light and sweet, like lemon cakes, and he almost believes her, “and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

She looks up at him.

“With this kiss,” Jaime says slowly, brushing her hair over her shoulders, cupping her neck. His thumbs flit over her jaw. He leans in close, smirks when he hears her breath hitch. “I pledge my love.”

Jaime kisses her, languidly, leisurely, slow because he is sure he is her first and if he wants to do it again, he can’t very well scare her off now. He is surprised when she kisses him back, her lips a beat behind his but pressing, soft. He pulls away but stays close, kisses her once again, fleetingly, before taking her hand and turning to the Sept. Their guests applaud, cheer, cry. Jaime catches his father’s eye in amongst all the fuss and feels like he is marching off to battle when he leads his wife down the aisle. The Queen Regent stands beside him. His sister does not cheer. She is watching him, her lips pursed. He cannot help but stare at her.

Jaime realises quite suddenly that he never thought once about Cersei during his vows.

**~o~**

The ceremony is short but sweet, a little hectic for his liking. Jaime sits at the head of the table, his wife beside him. She has since changed; Sansa wears gold now, her hair weaved like a crown around her head. She looks like a Lannister. _No, she looks like a Queen_ , he thinks. She is regal enough, sitting tall, proud. He cannot help but remember that she never answered his question before, and wonders if she resents that she is married to him, the cripple, and not the king.

Jaime stands, and it makes her jump a little. He offers her his good hand. “My Lady, would you do me the honour of this dance?”

She searches his eyes, but takes his offer anyway. Not that she could refuse him. The women whisper about what lovely babies they will have, and how beautiful they look together, and Jaime twirls her around the hall. He finds that Sansa commands attention, and whilst he dances like his Septa taught him at first, doing his duty, Jaime sees a glaze come over her eyes and she is both in his arms and elsewhere. He spins her to get her attention and her eyes snap to him reproachfully. The storm clears quickly, but he grins; her courtesy gives way to a chink.

Jaime spins her again. And again. He twirls her until her gown is billowing and her hair comes undone. Sansa looks, at first, like she wants to murder him, but the more he spins her, unable to fight back his grin, the more of her armour she loses, until a laugh bursts from her lips and she stumbles into his chest. He laughs too. His arms shoot to steady her. Her breath is hot through his shirt. Jaime leans his cheek on the top of her head, closes his eyes for a moment. If this is peace, it does not last long.

“Lady Stark!” She tenses in his arms, and Jaime sobers immediately. They part. Joffrey appears before them, face contorted with a malicious grin. “But- well no! It’s Lady Lannister now, isn’t it? My utmost apologies.

“I want to congratulate you,” he continues arrogantly. “As your king. For a traitor’s daughter, you’ve done incredibly well for yourself, haven’t you? Many thought you should rot in the Black Cells like your father.” Joffrey creeps closer. He trails his finger along her neck. Jaime clenches his golden hand tightly to stop from reaching for his sword. The bastard king steps back and laughs. He claps mockingly. “I must commend you, my Lady- my uncle’s bed is a vast improvement.”

“Your Grace,” Jaime grits out, only just controlling himself.

“I do believe it’s been quite long enough,” interrupts the king. His grin twists. Jaime stares at his son and wonders if there is any part of him within him, or if it is all Cersei. Joffrey raises his arms and shouts, “Time for the bedding!”

Sansa’s hand shoots out to clutch his arm. It is the first time his wife has touched him willingly, and Jaime stares at her. A vein pulses in her neck. Her throat convulses as she tries to steady her breathing.

“Your Grace,” he begins, in a lower voice this time, but then people are touching him, wrenching his wife away, tearing at her clothes, at his clothes- His skin feels cold where she had touched him.

Tywin appears suddenly, his hand clasping the king’s shoulder. “The bedding ceremony is old fashioned, Your Grace. Perhaps you should forgo it.”

It is not a request, or even a suggestion, despite its phrasing. Even Joffrey is not foolish enough to miss the undercurrent of his Hand’s voice. He waves his hand and the groping hands fall away, a murmur of disappointment rippling through the room, though his eyes cling to Sansa. Jaime watches their silent battle of wills, and is pleased that his wife doesn’t even blink.

“Well,” he announces, moving to his wife, bringing his hand up to rest on Sansa’s back. “If you’ll excuse us, your Grace. It has been a long day and I’d quite like to be alone with my Lady Wife.”

He rubs his thumb along her back when she tenses beneath his palm.

Joffrey grins lecherously. “Of course, Uncle! Understandly so. Congratulations, once again.” The king shakes Jaime’s hand, before embracing Sansa; Jaime feels her tense up even more tightly, though her face is blank when Joffrey steps away.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replies. A flicker of disappointment gives the king away, and he flounces on his heel, most likely to terrorise some other poor member of court. Jaime watches him leave.

“Congratulations,” says Tywin in his tremulous voice. “After you joined the Kingsguard, I had given up all hope of you marrying.”

Jaime smiles tightly. _You didn’t give me much of a choice, Father._

“Thank you, Lord Tywin,” Sansa steps in. She smiles, and Jaime blinks. “I am honoured to prove a worthy match for your son. I promise to be a good wife to him.”

Jaime watches, and he wonders what game is at play here. Sansa clasps her hands in front of her, serenely smiling at his father.

Tywin’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “I have no doubts, Lady Sansa. I have heard many glowing reports of Catelyn Stark over the years to know she will have raised a fine young woman.”

Sansa’s smile only falters at the very edges, before it is back, in force. “How very kind of you to say so, my Lord. I assure you, my mother has indeed prepared me well for marriage. She is a very honourable woman and I hope to have inherited some of it, as my brother did, though I daresay we put our honour to use in different practises.”

Jaime’s eyebrows shoot up despite himself, but he quickly schools his face when his father looks at him. Tywin smiles thinly. “Indeed.”

“Thank you, Father,” he interjects before his wife can say something more explicitly treasonous and he becomes a widow after only a few hours of marriage. Jaime threads Sansa’s arm through his, pats her hand, squeezing her fingers in warning, and smiles charmingly at his father. “If you don’t mind, though, we’ll be going now. The day has been a long one and I should like some time alone with my Lady wife”

Tywin’s eyes linger on her, and Sansa meets his gaze. It is true, Jaime can see her mother in her, and his gut wrenches. He wonders if his father regrets not having Sansa Stark tried for treason with her father.

Jaime leads her from the room, smiling and thanking the guests who approach them as they leave. Sansa is strangely hospitable, acting ever the lady. She is not without manners, her courtesy never once slipping from place now that she has had time to rebuild it, and his father is out of earshot and unable to provoke her.

It is silent as they walk back to their room. Jaime hears each one of his wife’s breaths beside him. This time, he does not let her go. He fears she might run and get herself killed if he does. She retreats into herself, into her armour and he can find no chinks in it now. Jaime doesn’t know what to say to her, what to do-

_Be kind to her, brother. She deserves kindness._

They arrive at his chambers far too quickly. Jaime doesn’t falter or hesitate because he’s quite certain she really will run if given half the second to do so. The door closes behind them, and he is aware that they are alone now, that they are husband and wife, that it is done. Now that it comes to it, Jaime isn’t sure he can do the duty his father expects of him.

He heads straight for the wine in the corner. He doesn’t look at his wife. _His wife-_

“Do you pray, my Lord?” his demure, little wife asks him, hands folded tightly together in her lap.

He glances over at her, his only working hand momentarily slipping on his goblet. She is staring at something, and he follows her gaze to find that her eyes cling to the painting of the Warrior. Jaime takes a long drink. Wipes his mouth on the back of his golden sleeve where it stained pink.

Flashing her a smirk, he replies, mimicking her stiff formality, “Almost certainly not as often as you do, my Lady.”

Sansa purses her lips. She sits at the foot of the bed- _their bed_ , Jaime realises vaguely, her back straight as though her Septa had shoved a steel ruler down her spine. She looks beautiful. He doesn’t have to be near intoxicated to appreciate that.

Flames fall docile to her shoulders, the sky gleams in her eyes. Her skin is alabaster white, pale like the snow that hails from her homeland. Jaime looks at her and he knows that he couldn’t have asked for a prettier wife. But every time he looks at her, he is reminded of her mother.

The Stark matriarch would regret letting him go once news reached Robb Stark’s forces. She would surely see him for what he was: a man without honour, marrying the very daughter he had promised to return to her.

Even all this talk of Gods rang true of Catelyn Stark.

Jaime sighs heavily, putting his cup on the table, running a hand through his hair. He moves closer to her. She stiffens. He notices.

Stopping just short of her, he leans against the bedpost and says, “Your mother asked me the same question, you know. When I was her prisoner.”

Though a flicker of longing passes across her face, the girl remains quiet.

“What do you think of that?” he questions her.

She raises her eyes to him. “Forgive me, my Lord. My mother is bold in her criticisms.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Criticisms?”

“I am led to believe that she was not implying you should pray less, my Lord,” replies Sansa and her mask of courtesy never slips. Jaime blinks. _That little wench-_

His lips quirk despite himself and he sits beside her, ignoring the way her spine somehow flexes even straighter and her knuckles turn white in her lap. “She told me I had gone against the laws of Gods and man. I asked her where the Gods were when her husband, your father, was killed. She told me injustice was in the world because of men like me.” Jaime turns to her, taking her chin in his cold, golden hand when she refuses to meet his eyes. “Tell me, little wolf, what exactly I should be praying for?”

His wife never even quivers. Despite everything his family has put her through, she juts her chin out and he grips it tighter. “Perhaps you should be praying for forgiveness, my Lord.”

“For what?” Jaime asks her in a low voice. His eyes dart to her lips, where her tongue wets them.

Sansa’s eyebrows thread together. “For whatever it seems you are trying to escape, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime recoils, face tightening. As if the words hadn’t been enough, there is a pity clouding her eyes that makes him flounder. Not even Cersei, his twin, his other half, had ever noticed the conflict simmering beneath his skin- more likely, she had and didn’t care for it. Tyrion had probably noticed but his brother spent all his time drinking and whoring to do anything about it. His father couldn’t give less of a toss.

He forces a smirk, dropping her chin, flipping his head back with a scoff. “I’m not trying to escape anything, Lady Stark.”

Sansa looks away from him. She is unmoved and unaffected, totally unconvinced. Jaime doesn’t know why but her silence annoys him. Perhaps it is the drink, perhaps it is the disgust and pity he can read in her eyes. She is his wife. She has a duty to him now. She is not allowed to ignore him like everyone else.

Jaime grips her chin again, forces her to look at him, leaning so close he feels the moment their breaths touch. He snarls, “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”

“I am not judging you, my Lord,” replies his wife, polite as ever.

“Your tone would suggest otherwise.”

The façade she had worked so diligently to maintain since the moment she was first exposed to the Lannisters slips. His wife closes her eyes and whispers, in a strong voice that never once shook, “My Lord Husband, I am sorry. I-”

Her hands shake though.

Jaime falters. He swallows thickly, relaxing his grip. His fingers flit, splayed across her cheek. He’d forgotten how warm another person could be under his touch. His gold hand feels heavy and dead in comparison. He wonders how long it has been since she was touched carefully. With affection.

“Sansa,” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”

She does so. As his wife, he doubts she would refuse him anything. She’s been raised for this, he thinks. Well, maybe not this exactly. He doubts he was the shining knight she used to sing about as a child, the loving husband her mother used to talk of. For some reason, the thought doesn’t comfort him.

“I lost myself. I should not speak to you like that.”

She blinks up at him. “You may speak to me however you wish, my Lord,” she murmurs. “I am your wife.”

“No!” Jaime brings up his other hand to hold her face, pressing a little when she flinches at the coldness of the gold, taking her warmth. “No. A husband’s duty to his wife is to cherish and respect her. I swore vows.”

“Forgive me, my Lord,” mutters Sansa, “but you are not known for keeping your vows.”

For someone who had grown up with the family he had, forever sharp tongued and quick witted, he finds himself more and more perplexed by the creature before him. Though there is no question over whether or not it was an insult, she spoke so courteously that he finds he doesn’t quite know how to reply. An absurd part of him finds her terribly amusing. Another part of him, his ego, bruises and withers a little bit more at each of her cutting remarks.

Jaime opens his mouth to reply but stops. Catelyn’s voice echoes in his head. He smiles bitterly and says, “My vows often contradicted each other.”

“Perhaps you should learn to prioritise.”

A slip in her courtesy, he notices, a sliver of bitterness too. Jaime can’t feel offended, though. He is still cradling her face between both his hands, feeling the softness of her hair against his flesh knuckles, feeling the ghost of it against his pearled ones. He strokes his thumb along her cheek. “I agree,” he says slowly. “I should learn. I will. I am as much yours as you are mine, my Lady. My wife.”

Jaime notices she winced a little bit at the title. He smooths his thumb along her brow, over her eyelid, cheekbone, jaw, then finally ghosting over her lips. He traces her lips until she relaxes under his touch. “You know, you should probably get used to hearing that. We are bound now, pledged to one another.” Smirking, he presses down on her lower lip until she parts them. “My wife.”

“I’m your claim to Winterfell,” says Sansa plainly.

Jaime twitches, smoothing his hand over her hair, brushing it away from her face. “You are my wife. You will be the Lady of Casterly Rock. The mother of my children.” She blanches. He cocks his head, holding the base of her head. “Does that not please you, my Lady?”

She has to take a moment to steal herself before she says, “If it would please you, my Lord.”

Jaime sighs. “Your politeness is tiring, little wife. I would rather you bare your fangs than offer me false pleasantries. I have had enough of those to last me a lifetime.”

Silence. “I would rather die with my brother than bear you children and give your father The North,” she whispers.

Jaime can’t help himself. His eyebrows raise of their own accord and he almost laughs. He leans back against his arm, gazing up at her. Sansa shifts.

“That’s better.” Her gown is strictly laced up her back, in perfect bows. With his golden hand, he reaches up and runs his fingers along the seam. She freezes beneath his touch but Jaime finds he can’t stop touching her. “Did you not hear the women at our wedding gushing over what beautiful babies we’ll make? Isn’t that what you were raised to wish for? A loving husband and beautiful children?”

He knows it is true. He remembers the pretty little thing he’d met at Winterfell all those years ago, wide-eyed and naïve, fancying herself in love with Joffrey. Once upon a time, she would have swooned to marry a knight. Now, she looks like it is her worst nightmare come to fruition.

Sansa swallows. She finally looks at him, turning slightly so his hand falls from her back. He takes the liberty of brushing her side instead. “You do not love me, Ser Jaime, nor will you ever.”

That sobers him. His hand stops at her hip.

Jaime regards his wife for a long moment. As a boy, he had never entertained the thought of falling in love. Cersei had been the only girl he’d been able to stand; she did not whimper or cry, she liked to ride to Lannisport when every other girl he knew their age would loathe to get their skirts dirty. She knew everything he thought the moment he thought it, sometimes even before. She had always told him that theirs was a love nothing else could dare to compete with. They had come into this world together, she said, brushing his matching golden curls away from his eyes, staring at him with matching green eyes, and they would leave it together too. There was no Jaime without Cersei. That was why he had joined the Kingsguard, at her request- even if it had infuriated their father to be stripped of his heir, knowing they’d plotted it together, and he’d sent her back to Casterly Rock just to spite them both. It was a sign of his love for her, a grand gesture like the ones the common folk sang about.

Only since coming back to Kings Landing, broken, bent and crippled, did he realise that whilst she always told him that there was no Jaime without Cersei, she had failed to mention that there would always be a Cersei, with or without him at her side. She’d proven that when she had warmed her bed with his men, with their cousin, when she had dismissed him with her sharp cruelty, carelessly throwing him in the dirt, all when he had clawed his way, one-handedly, out of the mud to be with her again.

He loved Cersei. She has always been callous and waspish, biting and blunt. He always thought maybe she loved him too, in her own way.

Now, he isn’t sure.

Jaime’s eyes drop to his golden hand. He wants to destroy it, to burn it, to fling it from the tallest tower. He hates how weak it makes him. He hates how it has cost him everything.

“Could you love me?” he asks her.

Sansa doesn’t reply for a while. Jaime wonders when his worth had come to rest on the whims of a young girl.

“I thought I could love anyone once,” she murmurs, looking down at her fingers. “I thought I loved Joffery but he-”

Sansa chokes on the treason.

Jaime squeezes her hip. “No more courtesies,” he warns.

“He beat me,” she whispers, wide eyes, blue and frightened. Jaime stares at her. “He had his guards strip me and beat me, in front of the entire court. He told me he’d give me my brother’s head as a wedding gift. I was- I was so relieved when they announced he was to be married to Margaery. He- He is a monster, Ser. A monster.”

Jaime doesn’t know why but he feels a writhing fury coil in his stomach. His king, his _son_ -

He realises then why she had frozen so when he’d touched her, why she always freezes.

Softly, gently, he flattens his palm against her back again and she flinches. “Can I see?”

Sansa swallows and he hears it but he barely hears her say, “If you wish to.”

Jaime climbs backwards onto the bed, then positions himself so that his little wife is sitting between his legs. He tries to calm her by holding her waist, silently reassuring her that he is there, that he will be gentle. It occurs to him a moment after that that might not comfort her as much as he hopes. He brushes her hair over her shoulder.

With fingers intended to be careful but ending up clunky and fumbling, Jaime unlaces her dress, pulling the bows loose, pushing the material from her shoulders once it falls apart. He doesn’t mean for his hands to falter but they do, and she feels it and freezes. The paleness of her skin shines in the flickering candlelight and that makes the marks all the more visible. She has bruises of purple and blue, and older ones that have already started going green and yellow, spread across her body, ugly and garish and sickeningly stark. Sansa has small cuts scattered over the swell of her spine. His wife has, running the length of her back, from the protrusion of her shoulder blade to the opposite curve of her waist, a thick, red scar that looks to pulse.

Jaime feels the anger swell. His son had done this. Had dared to strike a young girl- had dared to strike _his wife_. He runs his left hand over her skin, feeling her heat under his palm. Jaime doesn’t know what compels him but he leans forward and presses a kiss to the scar, resting his forehead against her back. Sansa lets out a sob.

Pressing another lingering kiss to her skin, he says in a low voice, “I will never let him hurt you again, Sansa. You have my word. He will not go near you. He will not touch you.”

She seems content to let him hold her like that, and Jaime wraps his arms around her waist, holding her closer to him, resting his forehead against her back. He tells himself it is for her comfort, to reassure her he means every word, but the warmth of her skin on his, the softness of her, is something wholly new.

Cersei hadn’t let him hold her since their mother died.

Jaime moves away when he feels his little wife start to fidget. To his surprise, Sansa steals a breath, then rests her hand on his thigh to steady herself as she turns to face him. He watched her, fingers still curled around her hips.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. A tick, he notes, when she is nervous. He will have to train her out of that. It will not do to have such a giveaway; lions can sense fear. They rely on it. It also makes him want to taste her for himself and though he knows it is his right, he heeds Tyrion’s words- they have been on a loop in his mind ever since the doors to the Sept cracked open.

_Be kind to her, brother. She deserves kindness._

“Would it- could I stay here tonight?” Sansa asks quietly.

Jaime glances at her hand on his thigh. He tucks a curl behind her ear and smirks. “Nobody would expect anything else. In fact, it would be less proper if you returned to your own bedchamber. I’d be most offended.”

She blushes and he finds he quite likes the shade of pink creeping down her neck. He wonders how low it goes-

“What about- after?”

Jaime blinks. “You’d like to stay longer? With me?”

Sansa’s grip tightens on his thigh, though he doesn’t think she is aware. Frowning slightly, he cups her cheek, coaxing her to look at him. Murmurs, “Why?”

“He said he’d come to my room. That he was king and it was his right.”

Her admission comes out as a harsh, terrified breath. Jaime has to swallow. He tries to keep his hand soft on her face because he wants to clench his fist and punch something blond and regal and bastardly-

“My Lady, Sansa,” begins Jaime. He tilts his head towards her, eyes imploring as he looks into hers. “You do not have to ask.”

She nods and he notices that though her eyes remain wide, she relaxes slightly, leaning back against his leg. This time, when Jaime strokes her hair, seeking some innate comfort, Sansa doesn’t even flinch. As much as he wants to stay like that for a while longer, Jaime forces himself to lift her from him so he can edge back and lean against the headboard of the bed. She sits and watches him from near his feet. He beckons her closer.

Jaime has to wrap his golden fist in the bedsheets when his little wife climbs up the bed towards him, keeping his eyes trained on hers. She makes to lay beside him but Jaime grabs her waist and settles her on his chest, locking her in with one of his arms around her waist. Her head shoots to him. The fear in her eyes is tangible. Jaime soothes his hand over her hair. “I’ll not take you tonight. I won’t brutalise you. I’m not Joffrey.”

_But I did help make him._

The fear doesn’t disappear entirely so he rubs his hands over her skin, tracing the curve of her spine, soothing up her back, over her shoulders, down her arms. Sansa seems to melt into him, her arms hesitantly coming up to wrap around his neck. Jaime notices her eyes flutter closed.

“ _Sansa_ ,” he breathes, holding her tightly. They lie together in a quiet that is, for once, not suffocating.

“Will Joffrey try and take me? Even if I am married?” she asks after a while and her voice trembles even though he can tell she is trying to sound strong. It has the weight of something she has bitten back for as long as she could, before fear and necessity forced it out.

Jaime strokes her hair. “He shouldn’t,” he murmurs. “If he wants to live. I imagine his lewd remarks to you are because he wants your Maidenhood. It will take much longer than a day for even the king to reinstate the Lord’s right to the first night.”

Sansa is quiet for a long time. He almost thinks she has fallen asleep on his chest before she says, “What if I had already given away my Maidenhood?”

He tenses. He knows it’s hypocrisy at its finest, can taste it on his tongue, but the thought of someone else touching, kissing, devouring _his_ wife makes something inside of Jaime burn. Sansa seems to know what he is thinking, for she places a hand on his chest and looks up at him.

“My Lord, I am a Maiden,” she says, her cheeks that delicious pink again. Jaime relaxes, and holds her closer to him. “What I meant was- would it make a difference to Joffrey?”

Jaime frowns. “I cannot presume to speak for the king, but I imagine it would give him considerably less satisfaction to know that you were not taken by him.”

Sansa nods. He can feel each one of her warm breaths fan across the skin of his neck. “Ser Jaime.”

Jaime brushes her hair away from her face, peering down at her.

“I would like to be taken by you.”

Jaime’s hand stops. Her lips are wet and small and red, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling and bright. She is sprawled against him, and he feels every one of her curves and lines against his own and fuck, if she is not a test, some cruel test, sent by the Gods to question his honour, then what is she? Tempting him so purely? Making him forget all that he is, that he was, that he always has been.

As if remembering herself, she adds, “If it so pleases you,” and Jaime comes undone.

He tangles the fingers of his good hand in her crimson hair, pulling her closer until their lips are whispers apart. Jaime speaks in a low voice, almost like he is talking to a rabbit and he daren’t speak louder lest he frighten the poor creature away. “Are you sure, My Lady?”

Sansa nods. Her eyes flick to his lips and back, almost guiltily.

He is terrible, he knows, but he cannot stifle his smirk. Jaime’s golden hand holds her around her waist. He kisses her.

She is sweet and lemony, warm and soft, and so hesitant, so unsure, and Jaime must remind himself that he is likely the first to ever whisper the password to her lips. So he kisses her slowly, he tangles her tongue in his, then draws back, using just enough to make her gasp and shuffle about on the bed. Her hands slide up to rest flat against his chest. She is a slow learner, he thinks, one beat behind at first, but she learns, and soon, Sansa is making him breathless, touching him so gently as if she fears he might break, but he cannot help but be rough with pulling her to him, as if he fears she might leap away in an instant.

Jaime pulls at the rest of her laces, but his golden hand is clunky and heavy, and Sansa reaches behind her to deftly pick them apart. He wastes no time in shoving the dress from her shoulders, then wastes all the time in the world committing the contours and planes of her body in the candlelight to memory. She is beautiful. She is golden. He cannot help but growl and kiss her harder.

He does not make love to her that night. He does not fuck her. He takes his time, takes her slowly and painstakingly at first, responding only to her whispers and gasps, relishing in her pleas and the way she sings his name. Jaime doesn’t think he’s felt this for a long time. The only woman he has ever had was Cersei, though he’s never truly had her. He’s never consumed her, never touched her gently, never picked her apart, unravelled her, before putting her back together again, not like his little wife. Though there is no love lost between them, Jaime takes care to be loving. He wants to show her that he can be gentle, show her she can be cherished and cherish was what he intends to do, show her that maybe she can love him, and he can grow to love her.

When they come together, Jaime collapsing on his Lady’s breast, both gasping, feeling her fingers curl in his hair and stroke his head, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt such contentment. Love-making, fucking, whatever it isn’t- Jaime doesn’t care. He simply wants to do it again. To feel duty bound, to honour a vow he will not break. To feel like he is worthy of someone worth something. Sansa interlocks her fingers with his golden hand, drawing shapes along his pearl knuckles, then over the ridge where his stump ends, and back. He presses his head into the crook between her shoulder and her neck, feeling her pulse thrum against his lips. Jaime can’t help it, he can only hold her closer to him and wonder if this is his last chance for honour, loving Sansa Stark.


	2. A Wolf Amongst Lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So. I know this work was technically marked as complete- and it was complete! It’s perfectly suitable as a standalone piece, I was so overwhelmed by the response and the calls for an update however that I couldn’t help myself! Plus, the disappointment that was Season 8 (a personal opinion, I understand many liked it) kind of has me grappling for fanfiction now more than ever!   
> With this second chapter, I thought it would be really interesting to explore Sansa’s POV since Chapter 1 was all Jaime. There won’t be any repetition of events, it’s still very much an advancement of plot in the lives of our two favourite characters, but it’s certainly a very different take. As you will probably see, my version of KL Sansa is a little different, a little less naïve and a little more S6 Sansa, developing and learning the game. I really hope you enjoy this. It is dedicated to all of you who were so kind with your comments and encouragements. I cannot say enough how much they mean to me!

** A Wolf Amongst Lions **

When Sansa was little, she used to dream of the golden knights from the songs.

She was never under any delusion about what her role in the world would be once she grew older, and allowed herself to get swept away with the fanciful tales and love stories sung from Winterfell to Dorne. Her mother and father had done their best to protect her but she was a lady, and a Stark at that, and so, even as a young girl, she recognised her duty and dreamt of her future husband, of golden hair and jewel eyes, of kindness and laughter, of love, and the many children they would have together.

It was King’s Landing that shattered her fantasy, that tore out her heart and bruised her girlish tendencies, that introduced her abruptly and without any warning at all to the cold, cruel and grey reality of the world. Her father’s execution had ripped the cloak from her eyes, exposed the veins of the city and the rules of the game. Sansa had seen herself for what she was in that moment; a pawn on a board game, a piece pushed around by war generals in their bid for conclusive victory, no matter the cost. She was too valuable to be sacrificed, she knew that. She was a Stark long after Ned Stark died as her father.

It became very clear to her that Joffrey did not understand the game quite as well as he thought he did; his daily beatings of her, the scorn and brutality with which he treated her, despite the warnings from his family that she was ultimately important in their grander scheme of things, exposed him as the senseless boy Sansa had always been too blind and besotted to see. She was a slow learner, but it was true that she learned. She was no longer that same girl and she saw quite clearly the mechanisms that made King’s Landing tick and pulse.

There was the Master of Whispers and all his little spiders, the serving girl to the Queen, the stable boy, the Northern baker on the edge of the city. They all simultaneously over and underestimated her; they tried to pick her brain for anything Varys could use but Sansa always knew to play dumb and docile and their disappointment was a flash too delayed that she could pick his spiders out from a mile away now and artfully dodge their probing questions. There was Lord Baelish, with his slick smiles and slick tongue and keen eyes that missed nothing. Sansa figured him out more quickly. She anticipated more difficulty in unravelling the motives of the elusive Littlefinger, until one day when he told her how remarkably she looked like her mother, stroking the hair from her face, and she saw it quite suddenly, the cogs turning behind his eyes, the streak of hunger for a woman he could never have and a throne he could never claim. Queen Cersei was another matter. It took longer to understand the Queen, though with each encounter, Sansa thought she was getting closer.

And just as she thought she’d learned the rules of the game and all the players on the board, Jaime Lannister returned to the Red Keep.

Sansa saw him first as he walked through the halls, blood stained and battered, hair to his chin and beard scratchy and unkempt. He looked nothing like the golden knight she remembered riding into Winterfell all those months ago and it took her a moment to place him. It wasn’t difficult to see that something fundamental had shifted within the Kingslayer, something dark and twisted; there was no pride in him, no pomposity. He looked, Sansa thought, watching him from an alcove as he passed her by without a glance, like a broken man.

She’d made sure to keep low after that. Just as she thought she’d figured out the board, the game had changed entirely. She needed to see just how Jaime Lannister changed the situation.

As it was, the sudden appearance of Jaime Lannister changed very little. Sansa hardly saw him around the Red Keep, catching only glimpses of him if he deigned to show his face at court. She noticed the change in him, however, the golden addition that glinted from the shadow of his sleeve every time he shifted. No wonder he had seemed so dejected. He had lost the immortal part of himself, the thing he had cherished so deeply, the thing his entire self-worth and identity revolved around. Sansa couldn’t help but find it ironic that the hand that killed the king was rotting in some wilderness; the knight that had dealt the treasonous blow reduced to a cripple.

But part of her wondered if it had felt in any way like the moment she lost Lady. Like being forcibly stripped of a piece of your soul and left to grapple and wander for something to make you whole again.

She had almost written him off completely when the Queen arrived at her chambers, smile sickly and sweet, dripping with poison, and Sansa couldn’t help but re-evaluate everything.

“Hello, little dove,” she crooned, slipping into the room, and folding her hands together. She looked so regal, golden hair twisted and braided around her head like a crown. Sansa could see the malicious glint in her eyes.

“Your grace,” she bowed her head, dropping into a curtsy.

“There’s no need for that, sweetest,” Cersei said, gesturing for her to stand before moving over to the table to pour herself some wine. “Such formalities will soon become unnecessary.”

Sansa watched the woman closely. Her brain whirled, trying to remember snippets of conversation, any hint that could reveal why the Queen’s shoulders were so firmly set, her fingers clenching her goblet so tightly her knuckles turned white. Something had happened. Something she had missed.

“I’m not sure I follow, your grace…” admitted Sansa.

Cersei’s lips twisted. “Of course you don’t, child,” she murmured. She spun quite suddenly, eyes flashing, mouth pursed. Her face relaxed soon after and Sansa fisted the skirts of her dress.

“I requested the honour of telling you,” said Cersei, “given our close relationship. You see, my father, in his role as Hand of the King, has decided it best to secure a Northern alliance. Once the war is over and your dearest brother is defeated, the North will have to be pacified.”

She took a sip of her wine. Sansa carefully sculptured her face into a blank mask. She clutched her dress tighter.

“In an act of leniency, the Hand of the King believes a marriage between the last Stark and-”

“I’m not the last Stark.”

The words escaped her before she could stop them and yet, she didn’t grapple for them. It was too late to take them back and Sansa felt a jolt of satisfaction at the way the Queen’s face stilled for a second.

Then, her heart dropped through her chest when Cersei smiled, twisted and mocking, and said, “Oh, you will be soon, little sister.”

Sansa recoiled. Cersei’s smile grew.

“Oh yes, you’ll be marrying my dearest brother, Jaime. The king will release him from his vows tomorrow and then you will marry in a week.”

For some reason, Sansa tried to recall the song Septa Mordane used to sing to her as a child, the one about Jenny and her ghosts, but the lyrics evaded her. She clutched for some small remnant of her past, some safe distraction to keep her calm, to keep her feet on the ground when all around her, her life exploded. But all she could hear was the haunting melody and the errant, hollow thump of her heart.

She heard her voice as though it came from someone else, somewhere else. “I am a traitor’s daughter. I am not sure I deserve such a match-”

“I see what you’re trying to do, little dove,” Cersei cut her off, laughing sharply. “Rest assured, I told my father that myself but he’s male and stubborn and thinks he’s always right.” The Queen moved closer, so their noses were inches apart, and Sansa tasted the bitterness of the wine on her breath. “If you want to play the game of thrones, Sansa, you need to learn how to hide the wolf in your eyes. You speak such pretty words but your eyes, your eyes are like poison. Keep them blank, keep your mind working, but keep any and every thought and feeling out of your eyes.” She brought her hand up and Sansa sucked in her breath. Cersei held her cheek, dragging her thumb softly along her eyelid. “You are like a doll,” she murmured. “So very pretty. So very fragile. Jaime will never love you.”

Sansa froze, eyes catching on the Queen’s face, on the green of her eyes. Cersei’s lips twitched, and she stepped back, taking a final sip of her wine before placing her cup on the table. “I cannot wait for us to be good-sisters,” she said, the words rehearsed and loaded.

Sansa could only swallow, every courtesy choking her, though Cersei didn’t wait for such plastic pleasantries, clasping her hands in front of her and leaving. She paused in the doorway, glancing back after a moment, and said loftily, “Perhaps you can ask your king for your brother’s head as a wedding gift.”

Sansa felt her throat convulse, and the Queen’s smile cut her cold to the bone. She collapsed on the floor when the door clicked shut, clutching her chest. The lyrics came back to her, as though her Septa was there in the room, her voice low and soothing, and Sansa breathed deeply, closing her eyes, letting it lull her.

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts_

_The ones she had lost and the ones she had found_

_And the ones who had loved her the most_

_And the ones who had loved her the most._

**~o~**

Sansa wakes up and she’s warm. Her hair is a flame, sprawled across the pillow, and when she shifts, she realises quite suddenly that there is an arm draped over her waist, heavy and unrelenting, and a heat at her back. Something scratches her neck and Sansa seizes up. A low groan in her ear, breathless and decidedly masculine, has her closing her eyes again, head burrowing back into the bed in an attempt to feign sleep.

She remembers her husband. _Husband_. She remembers the Queen visiting her to inform her of her betrothal, she remembers the Sept and the way Jaime’s golden hand fumbled with the clasp of their cloaks, she remembers dancing and laughing and then Joffrey’s voice, hot and pungent against her cheek, promising threats only a king could get away with. Sansa remembers her husband, mocking her, touching her, kissing her-

Her entire body feels infinitely warmer, and she clasps a hand to her mouth. Squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut.

Sansa has always been raised to know her duty. She was a daughter, until she became a wife, and then she would become a mother. But whilst she had known about the bedding ceremony, she did not expect it to be quite like _that_. Absent-mindedly, her hand slides to her naked stomach. Her Septa had never told her how long it takes to make a child, and Sansa caresses her skin, wondering if a baby could be growing there now.

She ponders on the game, her hand clenching then falling to her side. Sansa wonders how the game could have changed so catastrophically in one night. She wonders if she will ever truly find her feet in it again.

“Sansa?”

She tenses. His voice is groggy, deep and worn with sleep. She swallows, steeling her spine and courage, before she turns to face him. “Yes, my Lord?”

Her husband pulls a face, tugging her closer, though she isn’t sure whether he means to as he stretches. “What did I say about formalities?”

Sansa studies him. Her husband- _Jaime_ \- is older than her but handsome. There is no denying his beauty; his hair is golden, his eyes bright and green in the morning sunlight, so similar to his sister’s. And yet, despite their similarities, there is something eminently warm about him. He has laughter lines and some youthful glimmer in his eyes when he smiles. Sansa finds him quite pretty, and she realises he has been talking, asking her how she slept, only when she raises her hand to touch his face and he falls silent and blinks at her.

“My Lady?”

She smiles a little. “I thought you said no courtesies.”

Jaime smirks, his arm tightening around her and she blushes when she feels the hard, rigid lines of his body against hers. He presses his lips to her jaw and her breath hitches. He murmurs against her skin, “Of course. My apologies, Sansa.”

He must feel the way her entire body erupts in goosebumps for she feels his grin widen, but he pulls back, brushing some hair away from her face. Jaime sobers quickly, eyes tracing every detail of her, before he says, in a low voice that feels like a vow, “Joffrey won’t touch you.”

Sansa stills. His other hand, the golden one, is heavy on her back, and he strokes her hair. She thinks of Cersei, of all of her lessons. She thinks of the game of thrones and how to win is to stay alive. Sansa thinks that this new game might not be so difficult to navigate and though she has only known her husband for so short a time, mere hours, she thinks he might be the easiest player of them all to understand.

The Queen’s voice whispers to her, _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one’s between your legs._

Sansa takes a deep breath and leans into his touch, interlocking her fingers with his against her cheek. Jaime watches her, his eyes hooded. She feels like she should feel guilty for playing him, but she feels nothing, only, for the first time in a long time, from before her father’s death, before they left to come South even, Sansa feels something that settles in her chest like safety.

**~o~**

There are whispers when they appear in court that morning. Sansa clutches Jaime’s arm tighter, and he squeezes her fingers. She holds her head high when they reach the throne, and Joffrey’s lips twist in a malicious smirk that is not unlike his mother’s.

“Uncle! Lady Sansa,” the king announces. “I hear you had a successful night. My guards were practically fighting one another to be stationed outside your room.”

Jaime’s jaw clenches. His hand tightens on Sansa’s, but she recognises the volatility in his eyes and speaks before he can react. “Thank you, your grace, for such a beautiful wedding. I can express my gratitude, though never enough.”

“I’m sure we can find other ways for you to show your king your gratitude, Lady Sansa,” Joffrey replies. He eyes her like she is a crown, a jewel for him to wear, or maybe something untouchable that he cannot wait to break.

Sansa bows her head. Despite the armour she has built up during her time in the capital, it is always Joffrey that can shatter her from the inside out. Her fear writhes in her stomach, though she maintains her courteous smile, allowing her husband to walk her out. He doesn’t say a word until they reach their rooms, bowing, bidding her a stiff farewell.

She watches him as he walks away from her, most likely going to train, feeling something fall through her chest. There are new guards at her door, ones she doesn’t recognise, even though they still wear Lannister colours. Sansa doesn’t understand why it feels as though the floor itself has given way beneath her feet but she enters her room, leaning back against the door when it clicks shut, and cries.

Cries for her father. For Arya, lost out there in the wilderness. For her mother, whom she misses with every fibre of her being. For Robb, caught leading a war he shouldn’t have to fight. She cries for Bran and Rickon, too young to understand that their father isn’t coming home. She even cries for Jon, at the Wall. Sansa muffles her sobs in her skirts and wishes that there was no such thing as the game of thrones.

**~o~**

She sits at her vanity, brushing her hair, though her hands are going through the motions, her mind is far away. She hears her husband enter the room, sigh dropping from his lips, and her eyes shoot to him in the mirror.

He is tired, the sag of his shoulders reveals as much. His skin shines with sweat and he sighs again as he begins unlacing his vest. His golden hand is still clunky and Sansa can see how frustrated he is that, despite training for hours, every day, it is just as useless to him as a stump. She rises and moves closer, pushing his hands away to undo the laces herself. His eyes are fixed on her but she focuses on the work, pulling the shirt over his head when she’s done.

“There’s a bath waiting for you, my Lord.”

“Jaime.”

“My Lord Jaime.”

He laughs a little, running a hand through his hair. Sansa steps back and folds her hands demurely in front of her.

“Would you care to join me, my Lady Sansa?”

Her cheeks flush and Jaime laughs again, though this time, the sound is heartier, warmer, rumbling in his chest. She knows he is mocking her slightly, finding amusement in her modesty. Sansa remembers the game, envisions the position on the board she needs to be in and swallows back her hesitation. “If you wish, my Lord.”

Jaime sobers quickly. He coaxes her to turn around so he can unlace her dress and she stands patiently and lets him take his time. He huffs a few times when his golden hand slips but they are in no rush. The bath in the adjacent room will still be steaming.

She steps out of the dress when it falls, wearing only her shift. Jaime’s hands linger, but she gestures for him to move into the next room, following after him.

He strips off the rest of his clothes and sinks into the water immediately, head relaxing against the tub, eyes fluttering shut for a blissful moment. Sansa steels herself and lets the straps of her shift drop. It pools at her feet and she braces herself against the bath before climbing in to sit opposite him. When she is seated, folding her arms carefully across her chest, which has blossomed in pink blush, she sees him watching her. His eyes are dark today. He beckons her closer.

“Come here.”

Sansa shifts forward, inch by inch. Jaime’s lips tilt before his hands are on her waist underwater, moving her so her back is against her chest and she sits between his legs. Her breath ripples, the steam makes her hair stick to her forehead.

Jaime drops his head onto her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist. She draws flowers into the skin of his wrist, feeling his heart beat against her shoulder blades.

“Jaime?” she begins softly. He hums into her neck. “Are we to stay in King’s Landing?”

She can feel him frown. “Are you discontented here?”

“I simply assumed your father would want you to inherit Casterly Rock.”

There is a beat of silence. Sansa bites her lip and wonders if she has vastly overplayed her hand. She must not get complacent in her place.

“My father,” Jaime says slowly, “requires my assistance with the war plans. I am no longer a member of the Kingsguard but I am still a commander of his army.”

“And what of after?”

“After?”

“After the war.”

Jaime laughs, his breath hot, fanning against her back. “Sansa, if I don’t happen to survive this war, you will either be remarried, most likely to Tyrion or Tommen to ensure the North remains in my father’s hands, or you will be free to do whatever and go wherever you so please.”

Sansa frowns. Her fingers pause. She had not considered that outcome. What if her husband does die? Will she remain trapped in King’s Landing with Joffrey and Cersei if Tywin wins the war? And what if Robb wins? Will she still be his sister? Or the wife and widow of the Kingslayer?

No. There was little point speculating. She was going to get out of King’s Landing one way or another. And yet, she is still perturbed by his comment.

“Dreaming about my death, are we, little wife?”

His voice is bitter, even if he is trying to jest. Sansa turns her body round to face him, eyes taking careful note of every line in his face. The skin around his eyes and lips is pinched, and he glances away from her, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He is far too easy to read. She must smooth him of his tells. She holds his chin and forces him to look at her.

“You might not believe me, Ser, but you are the only thing that has made me feel safe since I came to King’s Landing.”

Sansa cannot help the sincerity that leaks into her voice. She doesn’t mean to reveal herself in her eyes, like Cersei warned her she does, but she can’t help it. She cannot stop herself from speaking because it feels like he has thrown her a lifeline in the darkness, a chance to be honest, and honesty feels so foreign on her tongue.

“Not even my father could protect me,” she says. “He was the one who sold me to Joffrey. He chased his honour and got himself killed for it. What good is honour if you cannot protect the ones you love?”

Jaime watches her. His hand tightens on her waist. “I’ll protect you. I swore it.”

“You also swore to protect the king,” Sansa points out.

Jaime leans back. He is quiet for a long time. “What did your father tell you of that day?”

She shifts uncomfortably. This was not where she intended the conversation to go. Sansa diverts her eyes, before she murmurs, “Not a lot. I didn’t get the bedtime stories of his battles like Arya, or the lessons like Robb and Jon. I found everything out by eavesdropping.”

“And what did you hear?”

“I heard-” Sansa swallows. She drags her finger along the surface of the water, drawing shapes and figures, heroes and villains. “I heard that Tywin Lannister stormed the streets of King’s Landing. I heard that you ran your sword through the king’s back, breaking your vows. I heard that my father found you sitting on the Iron Throne, still with the king’s blood drying on your blade.”

“And did you hear that I warned the king against letting my father into the city?” demands Jaime. His voice is low, little more than a murmur and it barely ripples the water. He is staring at her with such intensity that she cannot look away. “That I told him my father would never fight for the losing side, especially not if the enemy could offer him something he wanted more? Did you hear that the king refused to listen, opening his gates and letting Lannister soldiers rape and pillage as they went? Did you hear that the king, knowing all was lost, commanded me to kill my own father? Did you hear he had wildfire placed under the city?”

Sansa stares at him. Jaime’s jaw clenches.

“Aerys saw traitors everywhere,” he continues. “So he had his pyromancers place caches of wildfire all over the city. Beneath the Sept of Baelor and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. _Burn them all_ , he said. _Burn them all._ So I stabbed him in the back and slit his throat for good measure.”

Jaime leans forward suddenly, so his nose is mere inches from hers. Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. His chest heaves, his eyes are wide, shining. She can see the emerald flames of wildfire burning in them. “Did you hear any of that?”

Silently, she shakes her head. Jaime’s eyes flick to her lips before he leans back. “No. Of course you haven’t. Your honourable father took one look at me and decided I was guilty. He didn’t even wait to hear my side of the story.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone the truth?”

Jaime regards her curiously, sadly. “Who would believe the Kingslayer?”

She realises that he has shown her his cards, the entire deck, just as she wanted, and yet, instead of victory, Sansa feels her heart clench. She holds his face in her hands, holds fast when he tries to shake her off.

“You saved the city,” she murmurs, flicking between his eyes. “You saved all those people and none of them have any idea. You’re a better man than anyone has ever given you credit for.”

Jaime’s breath is pained when it escapes his lips. Ragged. He shakes his head. “I’m not a good man.”

“No man is truly good,” says Sansa. “Just as no man is truly evil. We’re all jigsaws of them both.”

His lips quirk. He lifts his working hand to caress the inside of her arm. “You are incredibly good, my Lady.”

Sansa’s face drops. She whispers, “No. No, I want to kill the king.”

Jaime laughs. He lowers his voice to be as secretive as hers. “Sansa, I doubt there is a man or woman alive who has not shared that desire.”

“The Hound stopped me. I would have killed him. He took me to see my father’s head on the wall and I wanted to push him from the bridge.”

The admission is a rush of breath running off her lips. She has just admitted treason to the king’s uncle. Sansa wants to slap herself. She needs to remember the game.

“I wanted to kill him when he put his hands on you,” admits Jaime, pulling her closer so she is sitting on his lap. Her breath hitches. Her hands drop to his chest. Their treason is warm and intimate between their lips. “I couldn’t imagine him touching you, seeing you as I do.”

“He won’t,” she gasps.

“No, damn right he won’t,” Jaime growls and he kisses her and Sansa finds that it makes her hotter than the steam from the bathwater. “Because you’re mine, Sansa.”

She swallows. She knows that legally, in the eyes of the Gods, it is mere fact that she belongs to him, her husband, and yet the husk of his voice, the persistence in his hands and eyes, the desperation with which he kisses her, as though she is oxygen to him, as though she is everything good in a very bad world, makes it feel as though something has shifted between them. Something significant. Sansa kisses him first this time and swallows the pleased sound he makes as he kisses her back. She thinks of the game as his hand rubs up her back. She wonders if they aren’t separate players on separate sides of the board.

Sansa pulls back from his mouth and grips his face in her hands. “And you are mine.”

Jaime just nods before kissing her again. He makes love to her once more, this time from an angle that is new and surprising. He swallows every one of her gasps. Jaime kisses every inch of her face, her chest, lower, bending his head to reach where the water stops. Sansa clutches his hair and he whispers sweet murmurs to her, their hearts beating so decadently, so tunefully.

She wonders if they’re a team now and when it became her and Jaime Lannister against the world.

**~o~**

It is a week after their wedding that Tywin Lannister finally seeks out an audience with her.

Jaime left for training before she awoke and she sits in front of the window with her sewing. Sansa runs her finger over the silver direwolf, smiling sadly. She cannot cry, however. She has spent her tears already and has no more left to give.

When a knock sounds at her door, she assumes it is her maid, and calls her acquiescence without so much as glancing upwards from her work.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Sansa’s blood freezes in her veins. Her needle embeds itself in her thumb, drawing a little blot of blood. She dares to look at him.

Tywin Lannister is a tall man, imposing and perilous, eyes like ice shards and face as stern as a Septa’s. Sansa can see every military victory in the lines of his face, the bloodshed in the paleness of his cheeks, the ruthlessness in the cold smile on his lips. Jaime is nothing like his father, she thinks. Jaime seems to radiate warmth, whether he is joking or otherwise. He can be stubborn and mocking, though never ruthless. Sansa thinks that Cersei carries on Tywin’s legacy far more efficiently than Jaime ever could; his daughter is just as callous, just as cruel, just as cold-hearted. She could slaughter civilians in the name of family and still find it in herself to sleep at night. Jaime sometimes has nightmares, she’s noticed, where he wakes up sweating and she can only stroke his hair to offer him a false sense of serenity before he is lulled back to sleep.

There is no serenity in this world. Only chaos. But she keeps that small fact from him as though he is a child afraid of the dark.

Sansa slowly places her sewing down, getting to her feet to formally greet him. “Lord Tywin.”

“Lady Sansa,” he greets, moving further into the room, ducking his head to look her in the eye.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Tywin raises an eyebrow. “It seems only right, now you are my good-daughter, that I should come and give you my congratulations.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I hope I make a good wife to your son.”

He watches her, the smile drying on his thin, bloodless lips. The next time he speaks, it is in a lower voice, more tempered. “I do believe we are family now, Lady Sansa. You can do away with your recited pleasantries.”

Sansa tips her chin up and smiles. “Of course, Lord Tywin. Would you like to sit?”

She gestures to the seats by the window, sitting opposite him. Tywin’s eyes latch onto her direwolf stitching on the table between them, before cutting to her. Sansa takes a deep breath.

In all her time in King’s Landing, playing the game, she has never been alone with the creator.

Tywin stretches his arms along the armrests, fingers curling like claws. “Now that that’s sorted. I came to tell you what is expected of you as a Lannister bride. I understand this is a week late but war makes one stretched for time.”

“And how goes the war effort, my Lord?”

He regards her for a long moment, gaze stern and piercing. “Does your husband not keep you updated?”

“No,” replies Sansa, folding her hands on her lap. “War is a topic not usually discussed over dinner.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “I assume your mother prepared you for married life. Catelyn Stark was always efficient, even as a Tully.”

“Indeed, my Lord. She is an incredibly capable woman.”

“With five children. Three boys,” Tywin comments.

Sansa pauses, before she nods. “Yes, my Lord.”

“You know,” he continues, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never once leaving her face. “Jaime never wanted to marry. He was committed to the soldier’s life, sworn by his vows. When he told me he’d joined the Kingsguard, I’d never been more furious in my life.” Sansa stares at him. She wonders why he is showing her his hand. “He was my heir. My son. I had always planned for him to take Casterly Rock. He’s the only one, of all my disappointing children, that ever managed to disobey me.”

“Then I am honoured you chose me as his bride-”

“I thought we agreed to cut the pleasantries.”

Sansa falls silent.

He watches her, eyes never straying from hers and she feels as though he can see into her mind. She remembers what Cersei told her, how she gives herself away with her eyes, and forces herself to relax, to go blank, to feel empty. Tywin taps his finger once against the chair arm.

“Where is Jaime?”

“Training, my Lord.”

His face tightens and Sansa catches it even though whatever flicker of emotion overcame him disappears just as quickly as it happened. She keeps her thoughts neutral.

Tywin says, in a measured voice, “Jaime is still a formidable strategist. He was once my greatest swordsman. But no longer. I cannot send my crippled heir into battle, not unless I want him to be chopped into even more pieces and I have worked too hard to secure the legacy of this family to let that happen.”

She feels the need to point out that he has three children, and another son at that should Jaime die, but Tyrion appears a sore spot for him. Sansa records that information for later consideration.

He’s watching her closely. “Do you understand me, Lady Sansa?”

“Perfectly, my Lord.”

His eyes remain fixed on hers for a moment longer and Sansa feels as though she is missing something fundamental, something that isn’t being said, but Tywin appears satisfied with their conversation, standing.

“I must be off, Lady Sansa,” he announces, fixing her with his stare as they both move into the middle of the room. “I do hope you will heed what I’ve said.”

“Of course, good-father,” Sansa smiles. “After all, we both want the same thing.”

Tywin’s lips purse. “And what might that be?”

“Why, Jaime’s happiness.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even falter. He just nods and takes his leave. Sansa waits a few extra moments after the door has closed before she sits, taking the direwolf in her hands and stroking the threadbare fur. She is a wolf amongst lions but Tywin Lannister has just given her the key to the game.

**~o~**

It takes a few weeks before Sansa is sure. She’d been sleeping badly, waking in the middle of the night, and then sleeping late into the morning, always waking with a headache that felt to crack her temples open and a sickness deep to her bones. Still, she waits until Jaime has long since left for training before she has the courage to remove her shift and stand in front of the mirror.

It is not the feeling she expected, admittedly. Sansa had always dreamt of this moment, ever since little Arya had been a screaming pink thing in her mother’s arms, followed by Bran and then Rickon. And yet, considering her situation, considering her husband and his family, and the war raging in the distance, she had thought only of it as a necessity; a tool to get her out of the lion’s den that was King’s Landing.

But as Sansa presses her hand to her stomach, she feels her heart leap to her mouth and a strange sense of belonging washes over her. It has been so long since she has felt like she has a family, or a home to go back to, that the mere thought of a baby, contrived of her own flesh and blood, growing inside of her, makes her cry. It is far too early to be showing but Sansa missed her bleeding and has been sick every day, without fail, for six days. She will check with the Maester but her intuition tells her she’s right.

The baby is so much more than an amalgamation of herself and her husband, though her heart beats almost painfully at the thought of it having his lovely, smiling eyes. The baby is her ticket out of the Red Keep, away from Cersei and her spiteful glares and hateful comments, away from the monster that is Joffrey. The baby is her leverage over Tywin Lannister, creator of this courtly game they play, who has always wanted a legitimate heir.

Sansa’s thumb gently strokes her stomach. She wonders what Jaime will say, if he will be pleased. She doesn’t mind if it is a boy or a girl, though she knows a boy will suit Tywin’s agenda much better. It matters not, for his plan requires more than one child regardless, and Sansa is willing to extend her influence over the Lannister patriarch as much as she can. She wonders if Jaime will love them. She knows she undoubtedly will, even if they have golden hair and emerald eyes. She wonders if her mother will ever meet her grandchild. She wonders if Jaime will love her as the mother of his children, and if that could grow into loving her as his wife. Sansa hugs her arms around her waist and smiles.

She knows it is foolish to cling to hope, but she is hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Well! An unplanned, unexpected chapter two! Please let me know if you liked this chapter, as out of the blue as it was, and also if you want me to continue this with more parts. I don’t really have a direction with it, I just love this dynamic and exploring my two favourite characters. If I were to continue it, however, which POV do you prefer or do you think I should continue swapping between them both? Thank you so much for reading. I was genuinely BLOWN AWAY by the response to the first chapter, you were all incredibly sweet!

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I will go down with this ship. This is my favourite, my most frantic, what-if on Game of Thrones. The PARALLELS between these two are unreal from a narratological perspective and I ran out of fics for them so I figured I’d write my own take. I had a lot of fun with it too! I’m busy at the moment so I’m going to leave it ‘Complete’ but who knows? If I get the time in the future, I might come back and revisit my two favourite characters. (Probably will after the GOT S8 finale to make myself feel better when everyone is dead. Nothing like fanfic to fill a hole in the heart). I hope you all enjoyed it and I did them justice, this is my first GOT fanfic so I’m quite excited about branching out!


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